doors

The cabinet holds the trinkets of memories… gone events, faded emotions, worn details…

. . .

I close the cabinet, shaking off the tape recorded conversation running on a loop in my head.

Ki is here. His muscular languid stride up the stairs, is fluid but heavy… I don’t know how many stairs down I hear him but I know he’s just about to be at the door.

It’s nice to be back home, leaving Rita was a struggle in itself; I need to work the deadline, this piece is exhaustive work and I’m ready to let go of my mind and live in impulse for a few days.

. . .

The door is never open, only for Ki, I anticipate his entrance; cracking the worn gladiator door far enough for the roasted aromas of salted caramel and espresso grace my home; I hope he has assurance he is welcome.

Joy Jane June

42nd short 08.19.2019 doors


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